


On the GardenWall

by Unashamed_Enthusiast



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Meet-Cute, Mistaken Identity, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Texting, they're just so stupid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:36:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29740230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unashamed_Enthusiast/pseuds/Unashamed_Enthusiast
Summary: Did I create an entire business model just so I could have these two idiots talk to each other?Yes. Yes I did.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	1. Thursday (very early) morning

Oh how the mighty had fallen.

Tired, cold, and on 8% battery. Crowley didn’t even take a moment to feel guilty about sending a request so early. If you were an idiot who set your chest to ‘always available’, that’s on you.

He felt a rush of relief as the green bubble of response appeared. The relief ebbed away the longer the bubble stayed there. 

What was this guy typing? Crowley watched his battery drop to 7%.

Crowley groaned to the world in general. This was it, he was about to lose his last chance of salvaging this day on a slow typer.

Crowley stood in the cold and unfamiliar street staring as more little bubbles appeared. His hand spun in go-faster motions until his patience ran out, he typed and sent another message before the angel managed to continue.

The bubbles paused and restarted

Crowley’s knees bent with the force of the “furfucksssaaaaake” he hissed at the sky. But to his surprise there was another message waiting for him when he finished his mini temper tantrum.

Crowley had lived in London for 10 years. This was not only unusual, it was suspicious. Was it illegal? It felt illegal. But it couldn’t be. Could it? How did entrapment work again?

Crowley looked between the closed cafe behind him, the apparently empty flat above it, and his rapidly dwindling battery. It began to rain. 

Fuck it.

It was statistically unlikely his day could get any worse, in fact getting murdered by an Emily Brontë critic would probably be an upswing at this point.

Crowley scurried under the eaves of the secure entry door to find two digital lockboxes for flats 2a and 2b. Not wanting to waste his precious remaining battery on the world’s slowest typist he tried one and then the other, 2b opened with a glorious click to reveal two keys and a keyring reminding where they should be returned. 

All he had to do now was walk into a complete stranger's home, hunt through their stuff for a phone charger, and steal enough electricity for a 20% charge. By then the cafe would be open and he could hunker down with a single coffee until his supplies arrived like any normal londoner. 

It wasn't illegal, just, really really weird. 

The gentle vibration of his phone shutting down made the decision for him. Weird or not, he needed that delivery code, money for coffee, an update from Eric and almost certainly to make a claim to his insurance company. And for those things, he needed his phone. 

He entered the shared hall and tried not to creep up the stairs, because he was not a creep, he was an invited guest really, if you think about it. 

At 6:15am on a Thursday morning. Completely normal situation. People probably do this all the time. Possibly. Someone somewhere must have done something _similar_ before. 

He was mildly surprised when the key actually opened the flat’s main door, this really was very kind when you thought about it, mutual trust in your fellow man. Or at least mutually assured destruction. These days a revoked GardenWall profile was probably considered worse than poor credit or most of the petty crimes.

He peered slowly into the grey dawn lit hallway not knowing what to expect. He was mildly underwhelmed to see a fairly normal, if slightly frumpy, flat. 

The hall table held a very sad looking peace lily, and success! the same GardenWall box he kept behind the bars; branded umbrellas, flip flops, sewing kits, mini first aid sets, and glorious life giving charging cables and battery packs.

Now, where would be a likely spot for a socket? There wasn’t an obvious socket in the hall, he was going to have to close the front door and actually go in. Crowley spotted a lamp between a beat up armchair and a sofa buried in mismatched throw cushions. Lamps needed light right? Well, electricity to be lights, anyway, there was definitely a plug around there somewhere is what he’s saying. 

He grabbed a multi-charger and definitely did not _creep_ over to the couch, just, a soft walk without turning any lights on. It’s one thing to go in and just use this guys electric, he’s not about to start turning stuff on like he owns the place. After some mild contortion and a brief struggle with an odd angled socket behind the couch he heard the gentle vibration of his phone beginning to charge and sagged gratefully into the soft couch of many cushions. 

He allowed himself a few minutes to just sit there, head tipped back against the couch as he contemplated the trauma of the last few hours.

Work had been hectic for a Wednesday which did or did not bode well for the weekend ahead, depending on which side of the till you stood. Then he'd gotten home, well nearly home, to find the building surrounded by emergency crews. Her upstairs had managed to flood from the penthouse to the 1st floor and no one had been allowed access. Given he was directly below Her he did not have high hopes for the contents of his poor flat. Fuck, if She’s drowned his dove orchid he’d do more than shout at the ceiling this time. Constant drama from Her upstairs. 

Hence, the plan! Change of clothes, charger, duffle bag and a pre packed toiletry case to a handy drop off locker, wait in the cafe for '3hrs or less!' till the delivery guy turns up, grab a cheap hotel for a nap, assess the damage at the flat, almost certainly start the claim with his home insurance and into work by 8 like a champ. Solid plan. 

It would’ve worked. He'd just overestimated both his battery life and his ability to stand in the street waiting for a cafe to open without scrolling mindlessly through his phone. 

He let out a one big sigh and twisted round to turn his phone on while it still hung from the tiny multi cable. 9% and climbing. The plan was back on track and he could afford to sink back into the couch and just be _comfortable_ for 10 minutes. Urgh. He should really let this guy know he’s currently sitting on his couch stealing his electricity. Say thank you, an’ that.

With a groan he contorted over the back of the sofa endeavouring to operate his phone while it was still down the back of a couch and 15cm from the wall. 

He opened the chat to find a message waiting for him:

Oh that was troubling. 

He switched to the tracking site and found that he was a comforting 32nd of 278 parcels, the delivery guy was already on number 9. Then just out of morbid curiosity he snooped the cafe’s reviews. 

Okay, that was less promising. 

Crowley couldn’t resist clicking through to read each reply, whoever had given owners the ability to review their reviewers deserved some sort of commendation. Peak entertainment is what it was.

He huffed a soft laugh out loud and suddenly remembered he was practically upside down over the back of the couch. He typed out a quick reply to his absent host and scrambled back out to flop down dramatically amongst the soft cushions.

Maybe he’d steal a full charge just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I create an entire business model just so I could have these two idiots talk to each other?
> 
> Yes. Yes I did.


	2. Thursday Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one, I almost add this onto the previous chapter.

Crowley happily sat and watched the delivery guy trundle around London until his phone was charged and his supplies were 5 stops away. A quick look around to check if there was anything he’d disturbed and then a solid minute standing in the hall wondering if he’d feel worse if he did or did not water the wilting houseplant. 

The ‘angel’ would be back home tonight and he’d probably make it his first order of business, by the state of the thing the guy must have been gone for _days_. He resisted the urge to just give it a little, if the angel noticed he might wonder what else in the flat he’d been fiddling with.

With a mere ‘ _2 stops to go!_ ’ he’d returned the keys to the lockbox with a fond pat and entered the single weirdest cafe he’d ever experienced. The formica tables and wooden booths were old enough that they could have almost passed for shabby-retro revival, the walls were lined with dusty glass cases of strange medals and yellowing papers, and the carpet (had he ever been in a carpeted cafe?) stuck softly to his shoes as he walked.

The giant friendly blue International Delivery Express parcel locker was easy enough to spot next to the counter. It was probably the only thing in the room less than 70 years old, including the abrasive barista that took his order. If nothing else Crowley had to admire his commitment to the very weird brand. What he hoped was a uniform-mandated macintosh could have been hung on the wall with any of the other ancient artefacts.

Crowley sat with his tea and commenced the next stage of the plan, finding a hotel for a kip. He’d been up for 18 hours now and was not enjoying it. Some neon chain nearby was offering a cupboard for £80, with a special offer to add on _either_ a towel, a hairdyer (20min usage), or wifi (1 hr or 25mbs) for a bargain £5. It'd do.

He'd switched apps to the get the delivery code while standing up and ended up just staring at his phone in a frozen half risen crouch. 

_Your delivery is currently 0 stops away!_

_You are 32nd of 278 parcels, your driver is currently on delivery 38._

Crowley didn’t like to rely too heavily on his own mental arithmetic, but this was definitely not the way this normally went.

He spent the next hour switching between anxiously drinking another tea, watching the driver tracker trundle around the nearby streets, trying to redirect the parcel to another locker, and giving the barista a death glare if he got too obvious in his attempts to hurry Crowley along.

At 8 Eric called and confirmed his worst fears, the building was uninhabitable until it was dry and even then, most apartments would need a full refit. There was some joint claim reference he needed to give to his insurance so it could all be dealt with by Her large claims team. Fantastic. 

By the time he’d logged the claim with his insurer it was past 9. He’d been awake for far too long, his driver was onto delivery 75, and the shabby barista had moved on to passive aggressively checking the time at him.

He cursed himself for leaving the world's softest, frumpiest couch before he knew the parcel was definitely downstairs. Without meaning to check, he found the angel was still sitting as available.

Suddenly his sleep deprived brain ranked comfort above dignity. 

Crowley flopped down on the couch he had vacated a lifetime and 3 hours earlier. It was glorious.

With comfort came clarity; the high street would be open by now. 

He could abandon the parcel as a lost cause, grab a change of clothes from any shop and head straight to the hotel. Still might, he thought as he dragged the throw blanket around his shoulder and slumped down further on the couch. In a minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only thing unrealistic about that hotel offer is that it's under £100 a night.  
> Looking at you Point A and Tune Hotels.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi  @unashamedly-enthusiastic 
> 
> Or come be bombarded with every ineffable fadom post that sparks joy  @unashamedly-ineffable 


End file.
